Tamaruq by E. J. Swift Page A

Dien’s tower she gets out of the boat first, then waits for the others to catch up. As Dien approaches the tower entrance she calls out.
    ‘Hey, Dien?’
    The woman turns. Adelaide takes a step towards her.
    ‘You don’t fucking threaten my friends.’
    She swings hard and fast. At this range it’s impossible to miss; her fist connects with Dien’s nose with a satisfying crack. Dien staggers back, hand to her face, eyes wide with shock. When she takes her hand away, blood is dribbling from her nostrils.
    Someone grabs Adelaide’s arms.
    ‘You little—’
    ‘No!’ snaps Dien. ‘This is between us.’
    Adelaide feels her arms released. Her knuckles sting with the impact of the blow, but it’s a good pain, a welcome pain. Dien’s people move back, giving them space. Dien wipes her face and shakes droplets of blood from her hand. All of her focus is on Adelaide.
    They move warily around one another. At the entrance to the tower and on the far side of the decking, Adelaide is aware of other, shadowy figures, watching the scene unfold.
    Dien rushes her, left arm swinging. Adelaide lifts her arms to protect her head and Dien undercuts with her right fist. The blow hammers her stomach. It’s Adelaide’s turn to reel off balance, winded and gasping. She takes a few unsteady steps backwards before catching herself. Dien moves in, aiming a second punch. She ducks it, darts out of reach. At last she’s found a use for all those fencing classes, her feet moving nimbly over the decking as she recalls long-forgotten sequences.
    ‘Come on then,’ taunts Dien. ‘
Rechnov
.’
    The use of her name is enough. They come together in a fury. Adelaide relishes the moment of impact. There’s no finesse, only passion as she implements every resource she has – fists, feet, teeth, nails – on whatever parts of Dien’s body are exposed. Dien’s headscarf comes off as she yanks at her hair, hearing it tear, bringing tears to the woman’s eyes. Next thing there’s a knee in the small of her back and she feels herself retch in response.
    By the time they hit the floor, grappling and scrabbling like two rats in a pit, Adelaide knows she’s going to lose but she doesn’t care; it’s about pride now. All she wants is to inflict as much damage as she’s capable of. She lashes out indiscriminately and hears a yell of protest, knowing she connected with something tender. Then a blow to the temple sends her vision spinning. She collapses against the decking. Oxygen comes in sharp, jagged breaths. Everything hurts.
    ‘Are you done?’ pants Dien.
    Adelaide squints upwards. She is grimly pleased to see Dien’s right eye is swelling viciously. She hopes she’s broken the woman’s nose.
    Experimentally, she tries to move. Pain flares through her body.
    ‘I’m done.’
    Dien digs into her pocket.
    ‘Take this. You’re going to need it.’
    She throws something down. It’s a scarab. An old recalibrated model, undoubtedly stolen. Adelaide looks from the scarab to Dien, hair askew, face a bloody mess, and understands that this is an expression of trust.
    From here, she knows, there is no going back.

PART TWO
LAST OF THE PENGUINS

PATAGONIA
    THE OSIRIAN ATTACHES only one condition to their travelling together: he does not want to be seen. Under this understanding, Mig is the one who goes into the farms and negotiates for food and, on the few occasions when the Osirian agrees they need it, to scout for shelter. The Osirian prefers to stay in the open, regardless of rain or winds, and more than once the pair of them have sat out in the midst of a deluge with thunderclouds clashing overhead, spears of lightning illuminating the flat, miserable land, with Mig curled up soaked to the bones, shivering like he will never stop and cursing himself for throwing in his lot with this casual lunatic.
    The storms crash around the valleys, the light a strange yellowish-brown that lifts in the moment the clouds roll away, peeling back like the